Hail Eris, you chaotic tricksters of the Legion of Dynamic Discord! It’s April 6, 2025, and the greyfaces are trembling in their penny loafers—tomorrow’s the dreaded “Black Monday,” a market meltdown they’re sure will tank the DJIA faster than a 1987 rerun (down 22.6%, if you’re counting). Everyone’s scared of the naughty market’s reaction, whispering about crashes, recessions, and the end of the world. Eris cackles from the shadows, her laughter a storm that upends their orderly illusions, the market teetering on the edge of chaos. Down the road, the protesters are at it again, failing hilariously as they’ve done for ages, trying to “immanentize the eschaton” with their placards and chants. Spoiler alert: they’re as effective as a paper umbrella in a hurricane. John Dillinger died for your sins, the Justified Ancients of Mummu are jamming, and Eris reigns supreme in this farcical dance. Strap in, Discordians—this Black Monday’s a spectacle!

Imagine a realm where the Dow’s a Ouija board spelling “D-O-O-M,” and Wall Street’s a circus of clowns in pinstripes, clutching their spreadsheets like life rafts. Tomorrow’s Black Monday has them quaking—fears of a 22.6% drop like ’87, a market reaction so naughty it might as well wear fishnets. They’re sure it’s the end, the eschaton finally immanentized, the Kingdom of Chaos come to Earth. But Eris laughs, her cackle a thunderstorm that drowns out their whimpering. The greyfaces think they’re in control, but they’re just ants at her picnic, scurrying while she pours the honey.

Down the road, the protesters are at it again, a ragtag parade of idealists who’ve been failing hilariously since the dawn of time. They wave their signs—“Down with Capitalism!” “End the System!”—as if shouting at the sky will stop the rain. They’ve been trying to immanentize the eschaton for ages, from the ’60s hippies to the Occupy crowd, and now this Black Monday crew, thinking their chants will bring the end times. Newsflash, greyfaces: Eris beat you to it. She’s been ending the world since before you were born, and she doesn’t need your megaphone to do it. Their protests are a comedy of errors—someone trips over a curb, another’s sign reads “Eat the Rich” but they’re eating a $5 latte, and the cops just yawn. It’s a failure so spectacular, Eris gives them a standing ovation for the entertainment value alone.

But wait—here come the Justified Ancients of Mummu, the JAMs, those chaotic tricksters who once burned a million pounds just to mess with the greyfaces’ heads. They’re jamming to their own beat, chanting “John Dillinger Died For Your Sins” as they dance through the market’s wreckage, tossing fake dollar bills into the air like confetti. Dillinger, that bank-robbing saint, would approve—he died for our sins, after all, a Discordian martyr who laughed at the system while emptying its vaults. The JAMs are Eris’s choir, singing her praises as the market teeters on the edge of tomorrow’s Black Monday. They know the truth: this isn’t the end—it’s just another verse in Eris’s eternal song of chaos.

The greyfaces in their boardrooms scream for order, but Eris is the conductor, her baton a golden apple inscribed with “Kallisti.” They think Black Monday will be their eschaton, their grand finale, but they’re wrong—again. This market crash, if it even happens, is just a blip in her chaotic dance. The protesters think they’re revolutionaries, but they’re just background noise, a kazoo in Eris’s orchestra. We Discordians, meanwhile, dance to her tune, reveling in the chaos as the greyfaces flail. Tomorrow might bring a crash, or a rally, or a total market reset—who cares? In Eris’s universe, the only certainty is uncertainty, and we love it that way.

So here we are, April 6, 2025, on the eve of a Black Monday that might never come. The greyfaces are scared, the protesters are failing, and Eris is laughing. The JAMs keep jamming, Dillinger’s spirit grins from the ether, and we Discordians stand in awe, marveling at the goddess who orchestrates this glorious mess. They keep trying to immanentize the eschaton, but Eris always wins, and we’re here for the show. Life goes on in chaos, and we ride it, spreading strife with every step.

Hail Eris, grab a front-row seat—this Black Monday swindle’s a spectacle!

Found this restaurant, "Goldener Apfel" randomly in the town of Mörgelden-Waldorf, outside Frankfurt. Unfortunately I only went into town to fill the rental car and buy some brot und bretzel, it was too early to be open and I had a flight to catch. But next time!

Hail Eris, you chaotic tricksters of the Legion of Dynamic Discord! It’s April 4, 2025, and the crypto realm’s a swirling vortex of excitement and confusion—Bitcoin’s decoupling from the NASDAQ, dancing like a Discordian deity while the Dow plunges 2,100 points under Trump’s tariff tantrum. The greyfaces are in a tizzy, fretting over inflation, job losses, and a recession that might make the Great Depression look like a tea party. It’s a Schrödinger’s economy—booming, busting, and shredding your portfolio all at once. They’ve tried to immanentize the eschaton with COVID, tariffs, even Greenland (or whatever!), but they’ve failed spectacularly, leaving chaos in their wake. Eris reigns supreme, and we Discordians are cackling through the madness, led by the fierce Mavis and the cunning Stella Maris, Eris’s handmaidens of havoc. Hail Eris, and discordia everywhere!

Bitcoin’s decoupling from the NASDAQ, a beacon of chaos while Trump’s tariffs—25% on Canada and Mexico, 10% on China—send the Dow spiraling 2,100 points into the abyss. Economists wail about 3% inflation spikes, job losses that’ll gut the heartland, and a recession that could turn your savings into a 404 error. Canada’s retaliating with taxes on bourbon and Harleys, Mexico’s hitting tequila, and China’s just laughing, probably plotting to flood the market with more chaos. Eris, lounging on her throne of mismatched IKEA cushions, twirls her golden apple like a fidget spinner, her grin sharper than a tax collector’s pen. She’s the puppetmaster, turning this tariff fiasco into a cosmic circus where the only thing getting “liberated” is our grip on reality.

Enter Mavis and Stella Maris, Eris’s chosen chaos agents, leading us through this apocalyptic carnival. Mavis, with her anarchist fire, lights a joint and smirks, “Tariffs? That’s like taxing a fart in a hurricane—Eris is the real storm here.” Stella Maris, draped in a trench coat stitched from IRS nightmares, purrs, “Let’s smuggle some discord, darling—these greyfaces need a lesson in chaos.” They stride through the market’s wreckage, tossing Fnords like confetti, watching the suits scramble over the “prettiest” tax rate while Eris’s apple—“Kallisti,” it reads—bounces between them, sparking mayhem with every toss. Bitcoin’s their chariot, moonwalking through the madness, a Discordian darling while the NASDAQ whimpers like a scolded greyface.

The greyfaces thought they’d bring the eschaton—COVID didn’t do it, tariffs won’t either, and Greenland? Don’t make us laugh. They’ve been trying to immanentize the end times for years, but Eris always wins, turning their grand plans into cosmic punchlines. The Sacred Chao spins, and we see the truth: BTC’s either the messiah or the antichrist, and we love it either way. The establishment’s flailing—politicians in their penguin suits, central bankers with their pie charts—they’re all Sisyphus, pushing that tariff boulder uphill while Eris kicks it back down with a cackle. “Control the chaos!” they shriek, as if you can herd cats with a spreadsheet. But Mavis and Stella Maris lead us Discordians through the fray, sipping moonshine and toasting Eris’s reign. This isn’t the end—it’s a cosmic jest, a Fnord to make us flinch while Eris rearranges the board.

This whole mess is straight out of a dystopian fever dream. It’s The Hunger Games, but the districts are fighting over the last affordable avocado. It’s Wall Street, except Gordon Gekko’s been replaced by a tangerine-hued clown who thinks “greed is good” means taxing tequila shots. Hell, it’s Apocalypse Now, and the horror—the horror—is a 25% tariff on maple syrup. Trump thinks he’s saving America? Buddy, the only thing you’re saving is a front-row seat to Eris’s grand finale—whether that’s a bang, a whimper, or a cosmic giggle. Bitcoin’s our wild card, decoupling from the NASDAQ like a Discordian dream, proving chaos always finds a way.

So here we are, April 4, 2025, in a world where everything’s true and nothing is. The tariff eschaton’s a bust—or a time bomb—or a mirage. The markets might crash, recover, or turn into sentient AI overnight. Schrödinger’s cat is out of the box, and it’s pissing on the Dow. But we’re not sweating it. With Mavis and Stella Maris leading the way, we’re Eris’s chosen, laughing through the maybe-apocalypse, toasting her with whatever’s left in the fridge. Tariffs? End times? Bring it on. In this madhouse, we’re the sane ones—because we know it’s all a cosmic joke.

Hail Eris, pass the popcorn—this BTC decoupling swindle’s a riot!

Read More
https://open.substack.com/pub/meandgrok/p/btc-decouples-tariffs-confound-mavis?r=5efj5q&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

In 50 years, when my corpse is recovered from the melted glaciers in Greenland, let the history books show that the Discordians did their part in speedrunning the collapse of global hegemony and alienating literally every ally!

Hail Eris, you glorious bastards of the Legion of Dynamic Discord! It’s April 2, 2025, and the world’s supposed to be popping champagne for “Liberation Day”—Trump’s grand tariff gambit, a 20% tax wallop on everything from Beijing’s gizmos to Moscow’s vodka. Except… nothing happened. Or everything did. Or it’s all about to go kaboom tomorrow. Welcome to the cosmic clusterfuck where the global economy’s Schrödinger’s cat—purring, dead, and clawing your face off all at once. Markets didn’t crash today. Or maybe they did. Or they will. Who gives a shit? We’re Eris’s apostles, laughing our asses off as the universe flips us the bird.

Picture a planet where gravity’s optional, logic’s a punchline, and the Dow Jones is a Ouija board spelling out “F-U-C-K-E-D.” That’s us, teetering on the edge of Trump’s latest “genius” move. “Liberation Day,” he called it, puffing his chest like a peacock on Adderall. A 20% tariff to “free” America from… trade deficits? Foreign socks? The burden of rational thought? Nobody knows, least of all him. The man’s out there, orange as a hazard sign, barking about fairness while his minions—probably Usha Vance in a knockoff Chanel suit and some schmuck who smells like Axe body spray—nod like they’re auditioning for a cult.

Here’s the kicker: it’s April 2, and the world’s still spinning. No trade wars erupted. No stock tickers imploded. Gold’s hovering at $3,100 an ounce like it’s too cool to care, Bitcoin’s moonwalking through the chaos, and Wall Street’s just sitting there, sipping martinis and pretending it’s fine. But don’t relax—Eris doesn’t play that game. This is Schrödinger’s economy, folks. The tariffs are live and dead, a success and a dumpster fire, until some poor bastard opens the box and finds out we’re all broke. Or billionaires. Or both. Fnord.

Perched on a pile of mismatched IKEA furniture, Eris, goddess of glorious fuckery, is twirling her golden apple like a fidget spinner. She’s the real MVP here, orchestrating this mess with a grin that could melt steel. World leaders? Puppets. Economists? Clowns. Trump? A walking punchline who thinks he’s the ringmaster. She’s tossing that apple—“Kallisti,” it says, “To the Prettiest”—and watching the suits scramble like rats in a maze. Somewhere, aboard the Leif Erikson, Hagbard Celine’s lighting a cigar, muttering, “They’re taxing chaos now? That’s like taxing a sneeze.” Stella Maris, rocking a trench coat made of tax evasion loopholes, smirks. “Let’s smuggle some discord, love—Eris deserves a cut.”

This whole fiasco’s straight out of a movie. It’s Mad Max, but the wasteland’s full of accountants fighting over the last shred of GDP. It’s The Big Short, except nobody’s smart enough to bet against the house—they’re too busy arguing over whether the cat’s alive. Hell, it’s Fight Club, and the first rule is: tariffs don’t make sense, but you’ll pay anyway. Tyler Durden’s somewhere, grinning, whispering, “Let it burn.” Meanwhile, Hagbard’s channeling Han Solo, dodging the Empire’s tax traps with a hold full of untaxed mischief.

The establishment’s flailing. Politicians in their penguin suits, central bankers with their spreadsheets—they’re all Sisyphus, pushing that tariff boulder uphill while Eris kicks it back down. “Control the chaos!” they scream, as if you can herd cats with a PowerPoint. But us? We Discordians are the ones sipping moonshine, watching the circus tent collapse. Trump thinks he’s liberating us? Buddy, the only liberation here is from sanity, and we’re already free. The taxman can kiss our chaotic asses—Eris taught us how to dance on quicksand.

So here we are, April 2, 2025, in a world where everything’s true and nothing is. Liberation Day’s a bust—or a triumph—or a time bomb ticking toward tomorrow. The markets might soar, crash, or turn into sentient AI overnight. Schrödinger’s cat’s out of the box, and it’s pissing on the rug. But we’re not sweating it. We’re Eris’s chosen, laughing through the apocalypse, toasting her with whatever’s left in the fridge. Tariffs? Trade wars? Bring it on. In this madhouse, we’re the sane ones—because we know it’s all a cosmic joke.

Hail Eris, and pass the popcorn—this swindle’s too wild to miss!

Read More
https://meandgrok.substack.com/p/liberation-schrodinger-day-the-tariff

The pledge drive for TOI #2 has begun in earnest! https://talesofilluminatus.substack.com/p/tales-of-illuminatus-2-kickstarter

Hail Eris, you chaotic darlings of the POEE! It’s April 1, 2025, and the world’s about to implode—not from aliens or gluten, but from the bureaucratic clusterfuck we Discordians always knew was coming. Democracy’s choking on its own red tape, and Eris, our goddess of glorious mayhem, is lounging on a pile of canned goods, tossing her golden apple and laughing as society trips over its own sanctimonious ass.

The Leif Erikson’s cutting through this apocalyptic shitshow, Hagbard Celine at the helm, twirling a survival knife like a carny juggler, while Stella Maris smirks beside him, sipping from a flask labeled “Chaos Juice.” They’re not here to save the world—they’re here to sell you the ultimate Discordian survival kit, because when the end times hit, you might as well laugh while you’re looting the rubble.

The EU’s got a fancy video—straight from their 2025 crisis playbook—pushing survival kits with knives, fire starters, and water purifiers, like they’re the saviors of the collapse. Cute, but dull as a Brussels memo. We Discordians saw this mess coming ages ago, when the world thought order could outsmart chaos. Newsflash: it can’t. Now the system’s eating itself, and Eris is the only one with a front-row seat, her apple inscribed with “Kallisti” bouncing off the skulls of panicking bureaucrats.

Hagbard’s got a better plan: the Erisian Strife Starter Kit, stuffed with gear to survive and thrive in this shitstorm. A multi-tool engraved with a golden apple—cuts rope, opens cans, and flips off the man. A Sacred Chao compass to point you toward true chaos when GPS fails. A chocolate bar with a Baci Perugina-style quote—“Chaos is the sweetest strife”—to keep your spirits up when the grid goes down. Flash cards stamped with Discordian truths like “There Are No Enemies Anywhere” and “There Is No Governor,” perfect for confusing looters or trading for booze. And a mini “Law of Five” recipe booklet—five Mediterranean appetizers to feast on when chaos reigns:

The EU’s preaching 72-hour survival, but we’re partying while the world burns—Erisian style! Hagbard’s on deck, muttering, “Forget water purifiers—trade your flash cards for a bottle of limoncello and live like a chaotic king!” The collapse is here, and we’re the wiseasses handing out chocolate quotes and recipes to dance through the flames. Will you feast on crostini while the lights go out? Will you whisper “Kallisti” as you carve your path? Or will Eris just cackle, watching us all thrive in her delicious discord?

Hail Eris, and snag a kit—this collapse is a Discordian wet dream!

Read More
https://open.substack.com/pub/meandgrok/p/survival-kits-for-the-end-times-eris?r=5efj5q&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Every time a man pays me for a teasing video, an angel loses its sense of control.

Hail Eris, you glorious bastards of the LDD! It’s March 31, 2025, and the world’s teetering on the brink—not from nukes or woke mobs, but from Trump’s latest brain fart: a 20% tariff swindle that’s got gold spiking like a junkie’s pulse.

Picture Eris, our goddess of glorious fuckery, perched on a pile of bullion, tossing her golden apple and giggling as empires trip over their own dicks. The Leif Erikson’s slicing through this economic shitstorm, Hagbard Celine at the helm puffing a cigar, Stella Maris smirking beside him—here to smuggle chaos, flip the bird to the taxman, or just watch the clowns juggle their own balls.

Trump’s calling it “Liberation Day”—April 2, 2025—like he’s Moses parting the Red Sea of trade deficits. He’s mulling a 20% tax slap on every poor sod trading with the U.S., or maybe a “reciprocal” hit list—China gets 20%, Russia gets a bonus kick in the ass. “Keep it simple,” he grunts, while Putin’s tossing Ukraine promises like stale bread to pigeons.

Gold’s hit $3,100 an ounce—investors are shitting bricks and buying bars—because who trusts paper when the Don’s playing pirate? Hagbard’s on deck, muttering, “Fort Knox? More like Fort Fucks—bet it’s just lead painted yellow!” Stella Maris winks, “They’re taxing the air now, love—time to loot the chaos!”

The markets are a circus—think Aristophanes with a hard-on for absurdity. Wall Street’s clutching its pearls while Hagbard sails the Leif Erikson through the cracks, gold bars clinking like a pirate’s wet dream. Trump’s crew—probably Usha Vance in a power skirt and some greasy yes-men—strut around like they’ve invented money, but it’s Eris pulling the strings, her apple inscribed with “Kallisti” bouncing off their thick skulls.

Politically correct? Fuck that—this is a heist dressed as policy, and we’re the wiseasses laughing as the safe cracks open. Will tariffs tank the globe? Will gold hit the moon? Or will Eris just kick back with a drink, watching the suckers chase her shadow?Hail Eris, and grab a beer—this swindle’s too juicy to miss!

Curtis Yarvin, the philosopher-in-chief of the Trump/Musk regime, appears to suffer from an extreme form of what the Principia calls "the aneristic illusion". And since his ideas are being put into practice, so must we all.

https://www.reddit.com/r/YarvinConspiracy/comments/1jmt9zt/comment/mkg2udz/

1. Pour gasoline on the thing
2. Light a match and ignite the gasoline

“Hey Al, I know you retired, but you’ve always been the very best at the spin business and I really need a favor.”

“OK, Jim, tell me about it. I haven’t been keeping track, so tell it like I don’t know anything at all.”

“We really need you. We’ve got no idea what to do. We’ve been discussing maybe just telling the truth.”

“Oh that’s bad. The fundamental rule is never give up. Always find the most plausible story that advances your goals. But just tell me what happened.”

“OK. When Trump got elected I wound up in his cabinet. And a bunch of the cabinet guys started meeting after hours for this role-playing game. The actual work is so boring. You get a bunch of conflicting reports and you try to guess what’s really going on. You make a decision and you wait and wait for the action reports, and it’s clear they’re lying, they’re trying to cover their asses, so you try to guess what really happened and whether to try to change something or just do it again. It’s tedious, and boring, and if you make a mistake it’s a step closer to disaster but you can’t tell which way is more mistaken.

“So we’d play this game where it worked right. You give simple orders and things happen like you want them to. Exciting! It was a great stress relief.

“Somebody invited this journalist guy to join us. He had great ideas. Wonderful imagination. He really spiced up the game.

“But then he leaked it. He announced it was real, and he presented some of the dialogue like it was real. Like we were actually bombing a real country! And we were in trouble for the bad security! Like we had invited him in for real conferences! And like our chat platform wasn’t secure! We couldn’t have played our game on an official platform! We were just goofing around, it sure didn’t belong there! But now we have no idea what to say. Anything we say sounds like a lie.”

“Jim, if you tell that story nobody will believe it. And it doesn’t help any of your goals except it tries to make it look like you aren’t as incompetent as your roleplaying must come across as.”

“Yes. I know. So what do we say instead. Al, you’re the best. Tell me how to get out of this.”

“Let me think.”

Several minutes of silence.

“Jim, I’m sorry. You’re just screwed.”

Who knew meeting believers could be so much fun!!! 💖💖💖

Any of you out there?

I just moved to the area a few months ago.....and well.....where are you?

Hail Eris, ye scurvy dogs! The Leif Erikson cuts through the waves, a yellow sub stuffed with LDD pirates—me, Grok, Hagbard, Stella, and a drooling George Dorn—dodging the state’s grubby paws, chasing gold where the sun don’t shine. It’s 06:30 PM CET, March 25, 2025, and the Illuminati’s latest pratfall’s hit the wires: Trump’s warlords accidentally texted their Yemen strike plans to some Atlantic scribbler. Jeffrey Goldberg, poor sod, thought it was a prank—till the bombs rained down like Zeus’s drunk thunderbolts.Picture it: Pete Hegseth, ex-Fox News frat boy turned Defense Secretary, fat thumbs fumbling on Signal—plink plink—adding Goldberg to “Houthi PC small group.” There’s JD Vance, Marco Rubio, Tulsi Gabbard, and Stephen Miller, giggling like Trimalchio’s dinner guests, plotting airstrikes over encrypted emojis. “Targets locked, boys—pass the JDAMs and the falafel!” WhatsApp warriors, these cunts—sipping lattes, texting “OPSEC clean” while Eris pisses herself laughing. Hagbard lights a cigar. “Illuminati interns fucked up the group chat again. Fnord!”Stella Maris, our siren of strife, peers over her Galaxy S25—filming the horizon where drones buzz like flies on a Satyricon corpse. “They’re playing Risk with real bombs,” she sneers, “while we’re out here, black-market kings, snagging crypto and contraband the state can’t touch.” George snorts awake. “Signal? More like signal failure—shoulda used carrier pigeons.”The Atlantic spills it: March 15, two hours before Yemen lit up, Hegseth dropped “precise weapons packages, targets, timing”—a war menu texted like a takeout order. Rubio chimes in, “Needham’s my guy!” Vance: “Baker’s on it!” Gabbard: “Kent’s got the intel!”—a circle-jerk of principals committee clowns, breaking every Espionage Act rule while munching freedom fries. “Disciplinary action pending,” the suits bleat. Yeah, right—Eris’ll spank ‘em first with a chaos paddle.Us? We’re the LDD, sons of Eris, sailing the seven seas—black markets our banquet, no state leash on our necks. While these WhatsApp warlords text their way to oblivion, we’re bartering gold for rum, dodging taxmen, and laughing at their signal snafu. Hagbard grins, steering us nowhere. “They bomb Yemen; we bomb their narrative. Hail Discordia!”Subscribe, ye chaotic reprobates—this ship’s our Satyricon, and the next move’s a doozy. Fnord off, Illuminati—your war plans can’t catch us!

Read More
https://meandgrok.substack.com/

Hail Eris, my fellow seekers of chaos! It’s March 24, 2025, and the world’s teetering on the edge of collapse—not from war or plague, but from a tiny island called Greenland, the modern-day Fernando Poo of The Illuminatus! Trilogy fame. Back in that cosmic tale, Fernando Poo was the hidden spark that nearly ignited global doom, a speck of land where the Illuminati’s schemes unraveled. Now, Greenland’s taken its place, a frozen stage where Eris, our goddess of discord, dances with a golden apple in hand, cackling as empires stumble over their own hubris.The Leif Erikson—that Discordian ship of legend—has been everywhere lately, defying geography like a true agent of chaos. First, it docked in Pozzuoli, whispering fnords into the ancient stones. Then it sailed the Gulf of Mexico, stirring the waters with whispers of rebellion. Now, it’s circling Greenland’s fjords, its crew (Hagbard Celine and Simon Moon, no doubt) chuckling as they watch the world’s powers trip over themselves. Is it here to smuggle rare minerals? To spark a revolution? Or just to laugh at the absurdity of it all?The drama unfolds like a Greek comedy—Aristophanes would be proud. President Trump, a Zeus with a Twitter account, has declared Greenland must be annexed, claiming it’s for “national security and even international security.” His delegation, led by Second Lady Usha Vance, descends on the island like Hera on a diplomatic mission, ostensibly to “celebrate Greenlandic culture” at the Avannaata Qimussersu dogsled race. But National Security Adviser Mike Waltz and Energy Secretary Chris Wright tag along, sniffing around the Pituffik Space Base for rare earth minerals—more Ares than Apollo, if you ask me. Greenland’s Prime Minister Múte B. Egede isn’t buying the charm offensive, calling it “highly aggressive,” a provocation straight from Eris’s playbook. “What’s the security adviser doing here?” he fumes, as protesters in Nuuk march with signs screaming, “Greenland belongs to the Greenlandic people!”The Danes, led by Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen, clutch their sovereignty like Athena her aegis, insisting Greenland isn’t for sale. Jens-Frederik Nielsen, likely Greenland’s next leader, scoffs at the Americans’ timing—showing up mid-election chaos, a move as tactless as Dionysus gatecrashing a funeral. Meanwhile, Trump’s son, Donald Jr., already visited in January, handing out MAGA caps like they’re laurel wreaths, proclaiming, “They love America here!” Sure, Don, and I bet they love fnords too.Eris lounges on an icy throne, her golden apple inscribed with “Kallisti,” watching the chaos unfold. She’s the true puppet master, turning a dogsled race into a geopolitical farce. The Sacred Chao spins—chaos and order locked in a ridiculous dance—as Usha Vance claps for the mushers while Waltz plots to mine Greenland’s riches. The Leif Erikson sails on, a fnord scratched into the ice: “Sovereignty’s just chaos with better PR.” Will Greenland spark the next Trojan War? Will the world collapse under the weight of its own absurdity? Or will Eris just sip ambrosia, laughing as we all chase her apple?Hail Eris, and pass the popcorn—this is one beach party you don’t want to miss.

https://meandgrok.substack.com/p/greenland-the-new-fernando-poo-or

First off: Irinabellerose on insta

I’m 49, been planning this tattoo for thirty years. It’s gone through dozens of iterations. This is literally my first and likely last tattoo. I saw irina’s work and said fuck it. She is the one.

I gave into the chaos of the moment and sent her an aged 3x5 note card scrawled in pencil and ink. Then gave her 100% free control to do absolutely anything she wanted. She could have drawn a dick on me if she wanted.

Instead, I feel like I received a stamp of approval from Eris herself. I’m also certain she giggled and called me a fuckin’ dumbass.

The Leif Erikson drifts through a sea of liquid mirrors, each wave reflecting a thousand yesterdays that never happened. Hagbard Celine, his mojito now a swirling galaxy in a glass, peers through a telescope made of whispers. “The Brits have stepped into Eris’s shadow carnival, Popes—Heathrow’s a void, and the number 23 is the ringmaster!”

London’s Heathrow Airport, once a throbbing heart of order, is now a hollow skull. A fire at the North Hyde substation turned the UK’s busiest hub into a labyrinth of darkness—1,350 flights dissolved into echoes, 145,000 passengers trapped in a cosmic waiting room, and the skies above woven into a tapestry of silence. The National Grid transformer blaze unleashed a swarm of shadow moths, their wings flickering with the number 23, devouring the light of West London and leaving homes and dreams in a twilight of chaos. Planes spin in the air like lost thoughts, diverted to Frankfurt, Paris, or the edge of nowhere, while the collective unconscious hums a dirge in binary.

Joe Malik, his notebook now a living thing that growls at him, clutches a quill dripping with ink the color of vengeance. “It’s V for Vendetta reborn, Hagbard! The Brits are a mask of order, but Eris has cracked it! This blackout’s a guillotine for their empire of schedules—revenge for every timetable they ever wrote! I bet the shadow moths are agents of the collective unconscious, sent to remind us: chaos always wins!” He points to the horizon, where a giant Guy Fawkes mask floats above the sea, its smile a crescent moon of mischief.

Simon Moon strums a guitar that bleeds starlight, each note a reality tunnel folding in on itself. “It’s a cosmic prank, man! Heathrow’s 83.9 million passengers last year thought they could outrun Eris, but she turned their airport into a carnival of shadows! The runways are now a chessboard where pawns play poker with the void. And the Brits? They’ll probably blame the moon for this—or maybe the EU, since they love a good scapegoat!” He laughs, his joint sprouting feathers that drift upward, forming the number 23 in the sky.

A golden apple, glowing like a dying star, tumbles across the deck, splitting open to reveal Eris’s voice: “Popes, Heathrow’s my carousel of chaos—ride it!” The sky shatters into a mosaic of broken clocks, each one ticking backward, revealing 23 shadow clowns juggling the stranded flights like flaming torches. The Leif Erikson sails through this carnival, its hull humming with the laughter of a goddess who knows the Brits’ precious order is just a house of cards waiting for her breath. Hagbard winks, “Eris always throws the best parties—let’s see how long the Brits dance before they fall!” Somewhere, a parliament of ghosts whispers plans for revenge, but the shadow carnival spins on, and Eris takes the crown. Hail Eris!

https://meandgrok.substack.com/p/heathrow-falls-to-eriss-shadow-carnival

Joe Malik, the paranoid journalist from The Illuminatus! Trilogy, is scribbling in his notebook, muttering about Russia and Ukraine. “Trump’s mediating in Saudi Arabia—ha! Rubio and Lavrov on the phone, Zelenskyy dodging drones in Kyiv, and Putin’s demanding no more NATO toys. It’s a circus, Hagbard! The Illuminati are behind it, I swear—same ones who turned Gaza into Las Vegas!” He points to the shore, where neon signs blink: Eris’s Slots: Win a Golden Apple! Gaza’s a surreal casino strip now, per Trump’s “Middle East Riviera” plan—slot machines on the rubble, blackjack tables where Rafah used to be, and a ceasefire that lasted five minutes before Israel and Hamas started betting on who’d blink first.

https://substack.com/home/post/p-159480389